51
by Mona S
Summary: Abandoned and betrayed by the organization she trusted, Agent Dawson disappeared. Now, three years later a man from the Special Ops has been ordered to find her and bring her back. EC.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Phantom of the Opera _

Prologue

The gun slipped from my fingers. Its weight was too much for the muscles to bear. It must have hit the cold concrete ground, but I did not hear it. I heard nothing except the wailing sirens and muffled voices of the men in blue uniforms.

It was over.

The man who had caused it all was lying in a pool of his own blood. His face was turned to me, his eyes opened, staring at me. The black gun was still firmly held in his hand, the bullet hidden in the darkness of the barrel, waiting to attack.

"It's over," I whispered.

I looked up at the sky, at the heavens. The moon was sickle shaped, but it lit the sky brighter then the sun ever could. A myriad of stars hung in the dark blue carpet, twinkling like fireflies. Not one cloud was in sight.

It was perfect.

A smile crept on my lips at the sight of the sky. I had not looked up since the ordeal began three years ago. I could not remember the last time I smiled. In all my years, I cannot remember being happier than in those few minutes I spend alone under the night sky.

"Freeze!" screamed a man behind me.

His gun was drawn, aimed at my face. Ten other men followed behind him, each ready to pull the trigger, to end my life. All I could do was smile. Smile and exhale in satisfaction.

It was over.


	2. The Assignment

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera. _

The Assignment

It all began three years ago. Back then I was a suite wearing, special agent for an over-glorified government agency known as the NSA. But do not ask or search for the whereabouts of this institution, for you will find no answers. The agents employed used to call it the "No Such Agency." Now, I truly wish that there was no such thing.

I was given a case regarding a man by the name of Steward Jansen. He was a fugitive, on the run from the military hounds out in Nevada. He had disappeared, and the military men had asked the NSA for help locating their man. At the time I did not understand why the NSA would become involved in the capture of this nobody, but I was taught to never question my orders. Like a dog, I listened to my master and headed out to Nevada on a small private plane.

I never liked to fly. When you are in a plane, your life is placed in the hands of a pilot. There is a sense of loss of control as you sit in those gray seats, looking out into the endless sky and patches of clustered white smoke. I hated that feeling. That was the reason I never allowed anyone to drive me anywhere.

"We will be landing shortly," announced the blond man who sat in the front, his hands on the strange looking black steering wheel. "You will need to fasten your seat belt," he said as he began to flick switches and turn knobs. I had not unfastened my seatbelt since the plane had taken off.

Land finally came through the blue that had conquered the view out the window. It was not the kind of land I expected. All that could be seen was one long, gray strip of road and golden sands. There were no cars, no houses, and no vegetation. But that changed seconds later, when the reflection of bright light hit my eyes.

Hundreds and hundreds of buildings stretched over a vast amount of land. Each one covered in metal and with cars parked in front of what appeared to be the entrances. As we dropped lower, men dressed in green became apparent. They stood guarding god knows what, motionless, their fingers on the trigger, ready to take action.

I had been in a military base before, several actually, but this one…there was something about it that did not sit well with me. Call me paranoid, but my gut told me that something fishy was taking place, and I always trust my instincts. They are the only things I can always count on.

Walking down the white stairs of the plane, I was greeted by a man in full army uniform. His hat hung low, giving me no view of his eyes. On the breast of his green jacket hung a myriad of medals, some which dangled as he approached me. Three armed men in camouflage clothing stood behind him, their eyes scanning me and the surroundings.

"Agent Dawson," said the man, "We have been expecting you. Please follow me."

I followed the man and his pets into one of the metallic buildings. As we walked, I realized that there was nothing in the open. There were several landing strips, but no planes. Besides the few cars, there was absolutely nothing else.

"This way," he said as he opened the door to what looked like a massive warehouse.

It was empty. There was one very long hallway which stretched for miles, but no people. Nothing but polished metal walls and cement floors. But there were doors, hundreds and hundreds of unlabeled doors.

The man in charge approached one of these doors. He placed his palm on some sort of touch screen at the side of the door, and then proceeded to swipe a white card though a black slot.

As the door opened, the bright overhead florescent lights came to life. Everything was so plain. There was a metallic desk, a few chairs, and over a dozen file cabinets that covered the white walls.

"Sit," he told me as he moved behind his desk. I did. "This is a very delicate matter, as your superior has most likely told you. We need the man returned to the base as soon as possible. He has been on the run for 45 hours, and we cannot afford to have him run loose for much longer.'

I produced a black notepad from my suite jacket. If I was going to find this man I needed to compose a profile.

"I am going to need some background information,"

"You were given a file with all the necessary information."

"I was given a file," I told him, "with virtually no information.'

"I am afraid that is all that we are able to release."

"Than I am afraid I cannot help you."

He smirked as I put away my notepad. I was prepared to leave the base and return to DC. If the army was not going to procure what I needed, then neither would I.

"You know as well as I, that that is not an option."

"You'd be surprised at just how many options I have," I said calmly, something which seemed to irritate the man. Good. "It was you who asked for help, not the NSA. If you are not willing to corporate then I see no point in me spending another minute on this base."

The man cracked his knuckles as he thought out his next move. He looked over at the file cabinets, and then back at me. His fingers began to tap on the metallic desk. The silence was beginning to irritate me.

"My time is precious, Sir," I said as I looked at the man with authority he was not appreciating. He might have been respected and obeyed on this base, but I was not working for him and whatever rules this base had did not apply to me. It was one of the perks, so to say, of being in the NSA. "Make your decision."

The man walked to one of the cabinets and pulled out a manila colored folder. In black, capital letters was spelled out the word "Classified." He walked to me, the folder in hand. When my hand griped the folder, he pulled it slightly back. I looked up at him, at those anger filled eyes for the first time.

"While you are on this base, I suggest you watch you mouth. Not everyone tolerates sharp-tongued women."

"They'll have to deal with it," I spat as I pulled the folder from his hand.

As I opened the folder, the hunt for the fugitive began; a fugitive who had a past that would hunt me for years to come.


	3. The Fugitive

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera_

The Fugitive

The search hit the 46 hour mark. I had been sitting on a metallic chair, in that deserted office, flipping though page after page of the remarkable work this fugitive had done.

He was a brilliant microbiologist, with what appeared to be a very strong background in organic chemistry. The man had graduated from three IV League schools with honors. He had more acronyms following his name then I had seen before. All in all, he did not fit any possible criminal profile, especially looking like that.

What is that clichéd saying? Oh yes, "don't judge a book by its cover." I must tell you, that that is a load of bullshit. You can tell everything about a man by one glance. At least I can. And the photo of the man in that file was as much of a criminal as I an astronaut. He was a thin man, the kind you can snap like a twig. He was standing, by a strange looking machine, a clipboard in his hands. His hair resembled a bush, and large glasses rested on his rather large nose. He was looking straight at the camera: no smile, but nervous. The man was a stereotypical geek.

The case made no sense what so ever. The reason he was declared a criminal was still a mystery to me. Putting the folder down, I waited for the army man to return and let me out of the white cage. If I was going to work on this case, I needed to be somewhere I could breathe fresh oxygen, and not that crap that was coming out of the vents on the ceiling.

I scanned the room. Well, there wasn't much to look at, but as I did my eyes landed on a small black circle that had been plastered on the ceiling. I knew what it was. We used that same camera at the NSA for household surveillance.

I looked up at the camera, and smiled. The bastards needed to know that there was no way in hell anything could get passed me. Authority must be established in the beginning; otherwise you'll end up following orders instead of giving them.

Seconds later the door behind me opened. The man in the green uniform entered with his hat sandwiched between his arm and body. He did not look happy to see me.

"I take it you are done with the file, Agent Dawson."

Rising from my seat, I nodded. I left the file on the desk, knowing that the man would not let the information in that folder leave his office.

"I will need to speak to a few of his co-workers in ord—"

"Not possible." His voice left no room for arguments, but that most certainly did not stop me.

"You expect me to lead a search based on a photo, which was clearly taken quite a long time ago, and information regarding his many accomplishments? I doubt he'll be hiding out in a lab, working on synthesizing carbon compounds."

The man seemed to pale a bit. Military men never, with a huge emphasis on never, show any sort of emotion that relates to fear, pain, or sadness. The innocent comment I had made about the carbon synthesizing must had triggered something.

"I know nothing about his character. I need—"

"His co-workers have already been interrogated. They had no information regarding Dr. Jansen."

"It does not—"

"I have been more than compliant with your requests, Agent Dawson. Nothing else will be given to you. Find the man; get him back; unless the task is too difficult for you."

"Well it certainly is difficult given that you yourself have been unable to find him," I spat back. "Co-workers, or I walk.'

His head dropped to the floor. His eyes rose to look at me in clear hatred. I bet he would have given anything to punch the crap out of me. I get that reaction from many people.

"One co-worker. Two of my men must be present during the interview."

"No."

"Not negotiable," he spat back. His eyes were burning now, his fingers clutched into two balls. I could even see the blue veins that had enlarged on the surface of his fists.

"Fine.'

I am notorious for pushing people to their limits. If I had pushed him any further, I don't think I would be alive today. Sometimes you just have to settle.

--------------------------------------------

I sat in yet another white cage. The artificial light from the ceiling was beginning to aggravate me. And there was one neon light that had been buzzing for the past 30 minutes. We were wasting time.

The large metal door behind me opened. Heavy footsteps were followed by the squeaking of sneakers against the tiles. It seemed that the co-worker had been finally delivered.

"Agent Dawson," said one of the men in uniform. "This is Dr. Patrovsky."

I nodded in his direction. The poor man seemed terrified. His eyes jumped from side to side, scanning the small room. His breaths came in short, loud gasps, as if he had been running a marathon.

"Please sit, Dr. Patrovsky."

The man walked to the chair across from mine. He did not look at me. His dark eyes faced south, studying the black table that stood between us.

"I am guessing you know about Steward Jansen."

"I know nothing," he replied in a thick Russian accent.

"That's for me to decide. Now, you worked with him, correct?"

The man said nothing. Instead his eyes rose from the table and traveled to one of the two soldiers that stood behind me. The doctor blinked twice before returning to look at the table.

"Answer the question," I ordered.

"I know nothing," he said again.

"Did he have any family?"

"I know nothing," he said yet again.

"If you say that again, I will bash your head on the table," I hissed. "Understood?" I am not known for being a patient person. The last few hours had drained me of whatever little patience I possessed.

The man's eyes rose to meet mine. They shone in fear, in despair. The bastards that stood behind me kept the man from revealing whatever he knew about the fugitive. The military had its secrets, that was known, but whatever they were hiding on that base must have been one hell of a secret.

"He spoke a lot about home, about returning home."

"Home? Where is that?"

"I do not know. But he said something about sun. He was strange man. He muttered while worked. He talked of religion, and birthplace of the one God." He stared at me, and then his eyes began to move frantically from side to side. "I know nothing else. Please. I only want to work. I know nothing else."

The metal door opened once again. His highness strode in with more of his pets. I turned to look at him, a sarcastic smile overtaking my features.

"Glad you could join us, Sir. Take a seat. Things are getting good."

"I said all I know," yelled the doctor. "Please. I wish to go."

The man in charge nodded to one of his men in green. The doctor was soon escorted out the interrogation room. The man in charge took the seat that had been just seconds ago occupied by the doctor. The rest of the men in uniform exited, closing the metal door behind them.

"I hope you have made some headway, Agent Dawson," he hissed as he placed his hat on the table.

"Plenty." Well, as much headway one could make from a three minute long interrogation.

"Why don't you share you findings with me?"

"I've never liked to share." I knew what he had said was a command, not a question.

"I've worked with people from your little organization. None of them have shown this much disrespect. I warned you before, Agent Dawson, choose your words carefully."

I must tell you, I had not been listening to a word that was coming out of those dry, cracked lips of his. Instead what that scientist had said continued to repeat in my head. Suddenly, like forked lighting in the night sky, the answer became clear as Vodka.

"International flights," I said out of the blue. "Have you checked passenger lists for international flights?"

"Of course. That was one of the first things we did."

"Check them again."

"That is a waste—"

"Check them again," I ordered. "Check for a ticket under the name of anyone that works on this base. Check only flights to Egypt."

"What?!"

"And I thought you people were smarter than gutter rats. 'One God.' He said he was to return to the birthplace of monotheism."

"Egypt is not the birthplace of monotheism.'

"You know nothing of ancient civilizations do you?" I asked as I rolled my eyes in frustration. "Monotheism was first practiced during the 18th Dynasty in Ancient Egypt, under the rule of Akhenaten and Nefertit. They banished all other gods and instated a single God: the Aten. You're boy was in Egypt for three years, according to those useless files of yours."

"That is pure lunacy,' he screamed. "He wouldn't leave the country. He wouldn't be able to."

"Who is in charge of this investigation?"

"You'd—"

"Get the flight manifests. Look them over. If you don't find anything, then you look again." I rose from the metallic chair.

"You're talking about thousands of names."

"Then why are you still here?" I asked. One of my eye brows had risen high on my forehead as I waited for him to get up and carry out my instructions.

The man rose from his seat. As he walked by me, his dark, hate filled pools starred at me. Deep wrinkles emerged on the surface of his already aged forehead. He challenged my authority, my capabilities as an agent.

"You will not always have the NSA's backing," he hissed.

"Keep this up, and trust me, in the end you'll be wishing I never leave the NSA."

I hated military personnel. Always have. The only thing that was keeping me from giving the man a few swollen bruises were NSA regulations. I had taken an oath before joining the organization. I vowed before my superiors to always follow orders and protocols. The NSA was my life, my family, my every breath. Nothing and no one would make me break that oath.

Now…let' just say all those years I spent working for them seem a complete waste. And that oath…I still remember it. But now, it is nothing but words, words that when strung together force me to relive the betrayal that tore my world apart.


	4. A New Lead

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera_

A New Lead

I walked along the sand covered grounds of the Base. The sun had sat a few hours ago, and the rays of the moon cast a subtle glow on the now cold golden grains that span into infinity. There is a beauty out in those lands that cannot be recreated by any other environment, a beauty which can go unseen due to the blazing sun in the hot, dry mornings.

I inhaled the chilled desert air, and was struck by a gentle aroma that flared in me a deep sense of tranquility. I stopped walking and looked out to the untouched lands outside the Base, and listened to the melodies created by the small critters that inhabited the area.

Nature can be lost on a person who has spend her life in the middle of grand cities, surrounded by the constant sound of roaring engines, horns and sirens. They say that the large cities of the world have incomparable beauties, astonishing sights. Well, whoever said that most certainly had never been out in that desert.

"I have been looking out of this same spot to those lands for years now, and it never gets old," said a man who had walked to my side. He was not a soldier, not one of the roaming guards. He was one of the scientists on the Base. "It's breathtaking, isn't it?"

I nodded as I looked him over. He had piercing black eyes which seemed to light with life at the sight of the sands. Then he tore his eyes away from the land and turned to me. He wanted to say something, but seemed afraid to do so.

"That is what Steward was trying to save. That's why he left."

"You knew Dr. Jansen?"

"He was like a brother to me, which is why I am here. Do not go after him." Desperation had entered his voice. Desperation followed by longing. "I implore you. He has done nothing wrong."

"Why does the army want him if he has done nothing?"

The stranger's eyes closed, hid away behind heavy lids.

"A lot more goes on here then you will ever know," he whispered. "I have to go."

"Wait," I called out as the man turned around and began to walk away. "Stop." He did not. He picked up his pace, his steps became hurried. "I said stop!" I finally screamed.

The man finally stopped, but it had not been because of my orders. A tall, well build man, armed with a black riffle emerged from the darkness. He looked down at the scientist, scanning the man as if he were an insect that he could squish with his polished black boots.

"What are you doing out here?" asked the soldier between clenched teeth. "The Colonel has warned you about your nightly explorations."

I could not see the face the poor man who was being interrogated by the army man, but I could sense the fear that was rushing though every vein in his body. I could picture the man's face: paled and drained of blood.

"He's with me," I screamed as I walked closer to the guard.

"Agent Dawson, you are not authorized to meet with—"

"I will meet with whomever I want," I said, interrupting the man who was twice my size. The solder's eyes flamed in rage at my response. "Now, if you please, the doctor and I were in a middle of a conversation."

"I have been given orders to—"

"Well, here's another order: Get lost.'"

"Agent Dawson, don't," whispered the panic stricken scientist, who turned to look at me.

"I suggest you get back to your room, Agent Dawson before something unfortunate happens."

"Was that a threat?"

"Think of it as advice."

"I will beat myself to death before I take advice from people like you."

"If it's a beating you are looking for then keep talking."

I laughed. The man had a riffle, and years of combat training. Pissing him off was not the smartest thing to do. Yet there I was laughing in his face.

I heard his riffle drop to the floor, making contact with the soft ground. The guard's hand rose in the air, flying though the darkness. I ducked before it could make contact with my face. My fist shot forth, hitting the man where it hurt. His whimpering cries confirmed the damage done to a certain part of his anatomy which I am sure he valued.

The man dropped to his knees, clutched his injured parts. I looked down at him, a smile playing on my lips. But my victory was short lived as I felt the guard's muscular foot make contact with the back of my knee. Next thing I know, my face was flat against the ground, the sand entering my nostrils.

I turned around to find the soldier on top of me, his legs on either side of my waist. His hands grabbed mine, and pinned them above my head. The man leaned forward, his eyes a few inches away from mine.

"I warned you, Agent," he hissed.

"Yes, you did."

My head swung forward, hitting him full force between his eyes. He did not fully release me, but I managed to pry one of my hands from his grasp and used my long nails to scratch his face.

"Bitch!" he screamed as he felt the skin of his face part open and the blood trickling down his cheek. The back of his hand landed on my jaw. Lights flashed before my eyes. For a few seconds the area had become numb, making me question if my jaw was still connected to my face. Then the pain shot full force, spreading though my right side.

"Larson!" screamed another man. "What the fuck are you doing?" It was another guard. "Do you want to get suspended?" The guard I had been fighting with was pulled off by whoever had just arrived. "You're already on probation, you thick fuck."

The new guard turned to me. I saw his hand in front of me, his fingers stretched out, offering help. I looked up at him in defiance, ignoring his hand. I got up myself, my eyes never leaving the image of the two men.

"Are you alright, Agent Dawson?" I said nothing, instead stared at the soldier by the name of Larson. His hand covered the new decorative streaks that adored his face. "I should get you to the infirmary—"

"No. What you can do is give me the name of the doctor who comes out here at night."

"I'm afraid I cannot d—"

"The name or I'll report your little friend."

"You fucking—" began Larson as he moved to attack me again. He was stopped by his friend.

"Cool it," screamed his friend. "Get back to your post, Larson. Now."

Larson picked up the discarded riffle and vanished back into the darkness he had come from. When he was out of my sight, I allowed my hand to rise to my cheek and assess the swollen area. I hissed in pain at the contact. The bastard had managed to do a real number on my jaw.

"Are you sure you're alright?" asked the guard.

"I'm fine," I snapped. "I need that name."

"I don't know his name—"

"What is it with you people and denial!" I screamed. "I am getting tired of hearing those words!"

"I don't know his name," he repeated, "but I can take you to him IF you promise not to mention what happened here."

"Fine." The words had not been enough for the soldier continued to stare at me. "I promise."

"And…if anyone asks—"

"I won't tell anyone about the two of you."

The soldier scanned the area around us before turning to me.

"This way."

Finally I was making some headway. I now wish I had just stayed away from it all, that I had ignored that scientist. It was all about luck, and as everything else in this world, it came with a price tag. It turned out I was fresh out of cash at that moment.


	5. Scratching the Surface

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera _

Scratching the surface

I have never believed in God. Nor in heaven. Nor in hell. In my book, there is only one sin. Only one mistake one can make to be damned into a lifetime of misery: lying. Not lying to others. No. Lying to yourself. To live in a lie, to make yourself believe in it, is nothing short of psychotic. And I would be lying to myself if I did not say that after those few days on the Base I was not petrified.

Humans naturally fear the unknown. After all, fear is nothing more than that which is not understood. But that is not what I feared. I feared that whatever was being hidden on that Base would escape, leak out before anyone could do anything about it. Whatever was being hidden was going to pose some sort of threat on humanity. It did not matter what "it" was. All that mattered was its capabilities and effect on the world.

The scientist I met at the base was Dr. Frank Revieli. He was a sweet, middle aged man, the kind that never raises his voice or loses his temper. He was a good man, a wise man, something that is very hard to find these days.

I caught up with him as he was about to enter one of the large metallic buildings that surrounded the base.

"You should not be here, Agent Dawson. If the Colonel finds you— "

"Don't worry about that. What do you know about Dr. Jansen?"

"If they find out I am talking to you—"

"They won't. Trust me."

A lighted, exhausted chuckle flowed from his lips. His hand rose and ran though his graying hair. His opal eyes looked up at me as he shook his head lightly from side to side. The laughter died out, and was replaced by unparalleled sorrow.

"It was trust that brought me to this place. Trust in the people you work for."

I was not some naive teenager, no matter how young I might appear. I knew that the NSA had its secrets. I knew they had been responsible for some very shady operations which had lead to the deaths of both the innocent and guilty. But I accepted their decisions, stood by their side because I knew that in the end the few lost lives would save hundreds, if not thousands.

"All of us here have made the same mistake," he continued as he looked at the door of the warehouse. "If we had known what was to become of us…I would have chosen death before this place."

"I have two sons, you know," he said as his grieving eyes rose to meet mine. "They must be about your age now. The last time I saw them they were still babies." His eyes left mine to stare into the thin air. "I thought if I worked here, I could provide for my family. I did not know just what this job would cost me."

Emotions have never been my forte. When people begin to talk about some heart felt moment in their lives, all I can think about is how to get the hell out of there. I was taught that emotions are only a sign of weakness. Showing emotions is nothing short of suicidal.

I still believe that. This world leaves no room for compassion and all that bullshit. There is death, there is injustice and chaos. Call me a cynic, if you like, but that is the truth. And compassion, just like all other emotions, only gives this world the opportunity to tear you to pieces.

"I am sorry to hear that, Dr," I said trying to portray some sort of sympathy. Yes, it was a sad tale, but I could care less at the time. "About Jansen—" The rest of the words died in my mouth when I saw another guard approaching. "So, you said I have to take a right over there and then keep going straight?"

The scientist looked at me puzzled. It took him a few seconds to realize that someone was behind him, coming closer. I could hear his heart begin to pound in his rib cage, screaming in fear.

"Yes," he said, trying to keep himself calm. "You have to take a right—"

"What is going on here?" demanded the guard.

"I got lost," I snapped at the intruder. I was getting quite tired of these men, who acted like they owned the land they walked on. "This kind gentleman was giving me directions on how to get back to by room."

The soldier looked between the two of us. Doubt was etched on every wrinkle that had emerged on his surprisingly pale face.

"You should not be out at this time," said the soldier as he studied my face.

"He is right," said the scientist. "You should stay inside, especially at around 2 in the morning. Some dangerous animals come out by Tower 2 at that time." He turned to the guard. "This fine young man knows what I am talking about. He had an unfortunate encounter with a particularly poisonous snake not too long ago near that Tower."

The man smiled kindly at me and wished me a goodnight. I watched him open the door, and disappear behind it. It seemed that I had a date at 2 near Tower 2, a date I was particularly excited about.

------------------------------------

The watch on my wrists ticked away as the seconds few by. It was exactly 2:05 AM, and there was no sign of the man. This area of the Base was completely deserted. The metallic tower that stretched forth to the sky was abandoned as well. It was all quite strange.

"You're here," said the aged man in between gasps of breath. "I was afraid you had not understood me." He stopped in front of me, his hand rising to his chest which rose and fell rapidly.

As he caught his breath, I scanned the area over and over. I could not afford to get caught by one of those thick headed guards.

"Don't worry," he said, "no one will come over here. The guards are terrified from the snakes that used to populate the area."

"Snakes?"

"They're gone now, but they do not know that."

"Back to Jansen," I began.

"Yes, Steward." He said as he looked out at the desert. "I hear you think he's in Egypt."

"Is he?"

"His father took him to Tel-el Amarna when he was a child, a year before he died from a heart attack. He wanted to see the place one last time."

"What exactly did Jansen do?"

"It's what he didn't do that has Col. Malden infuriated." Revieli turned to look back at me. Gone was that kind spirit that swam in his eyes. It was replaced by repulsion, hatred, such profound anger which, I must confess, scared me a bit. "None of us will ever make it out of here alive. If we refuse to work we are discarded like leftovers from dinner and replaced with fresh, just out of the oven meat."

"What are you talking about?" The NSA was willing to sacrifice lives for the greater good, but this…imprisonment and forced labor…it was the last thing the NSA would ever, ever approve.

"All of us here are given individual projects. They are fragments from the final product, a product that no one sees. Steward found out what the Colonel was going to do and refused to finish his work. He knew it was battle he could not win. He knew the consequences, yet he chose to run. He has accepted the fact that he is going to die and that his death might help delay what the Colonel has planned."

Revieli paused. I could see the salty liquid forming on the surface of his eyes, illuminating the dark spheres with the aid of the gleaming moon and stars. He shut his eyes, fighting back the impending tears.

"You said he was trying to protect something.'

"The world." He reopened his eyes and sought mine out. "He was trying to protect the world from what he had found."

"What did he find?"

"I don't know," he whispered as he shook his head lightly from side to side. I believed him. For some reason I believed he was telling me the truth.

My beeper sprang to life. It vibrated on waste band, and a message in black digital letters flashed amidst a brightly lit background. It seemed that no one on the Base was going to sleep until Dr. Jansen was brought back.

"I need to get back to my room," he said as I hit the black button on the beeper. "I cannot risk being found."

"Could you show me where Jansen was working?" The good doctor had already confirmed by suspicions of Jansen's whereabouts. I had not been sent to the Base to lead an investigation on the research being conducted. I have been taught to obey orders, but I also had been taught to listen to my instincts. And at that moment there were nor orders that could keep me from finding out exactly what was going on and exposing the work the Colonel was doing.

"I am going to be sick tomorrow," he said as he looked down at his watch. "Meet me at the back of the infirmary, and I can take you there."

I nodded in approval and watched the man turn around and disappear in the darkness. Revieli was risking his life. The reason for it was still unclear to me. What puzzled me more was the reason behind the actions he was taking. Why was he telling me all of this?


	6. Words of a Mad Man

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Phantom of the Opera _

Words of a Mad Man

Twenty four hours later, Dr. Steward Jansen was brought back to the base. I had searched his lab area with Revieli, but had come up short. Nothing but sharp broken glass and shredded papers remained from what appeared to have been a state of the art lab. The white tiled floor was covered in an inch of clear, aromatic liquid. I did not know whether the destruction was done by those incompetent fools on the base or Jansen himself.

I hoped that by speak to the apprehended "criminal" I would finally get some answers.

Boy was I wrong.

Jansen was…well the man had lost it. He sat on the floor, rocking back and forth as he mumbled under his breath. He kept his eyes shut, refusing to look at anyone, or even acknowledge their presence.

I sat in a chair, watching this man on the floor, this broken man who was on the verge of collapsing. As I have said before, emotions are for the weak, but looking at this poor soul, I could not help but feel for him.

"Dr. Jansen," I began, "Do you know where you are?" I asked softly, not wanting to scare him.

He stopped shaking and began to laugh, a cold laugh that rung in the still room. He opened his eyes, those red, swollen eyes, and looked up at me. He looked like a savage animal, ready to pounce and kill its prey.

"I am where the fires rage and the wicked are punished for their sins. I am in the place build for the forsaken, for the damned, for the ones who were not granted entrance into the land of the divine."

He continued to laugh at me, his yellowed teeth coming into view. His right hand rose, pressing on his forehead, hitting the pale flesh over and over.

"We are all doomed," he said as he rocked faster, his palm slamming against his forehead harder. "I made this. I made death. I am death."

"What did you make?"

"I made life," he said, his eyes looking up at me. He quickly rose from his spot on the floor, walking to me. He looked like one of those zombies from the movies. At his advancement, I rose from my seat as well, readying myself for an attack. "I made life. Life that kills," he said, his eyes pleading with mine to believe him, to understand him. "Small life. Really small. It's always been there. Always there. But now it lives. It lives to kill. Life makes death."

His dirt covered hand grabbed mine, it hung on to it. His intentions were not to harm me, I knew that much. He continued to look into my eyes, wanting me to understand what he was saying. I am sure that in his head the words that were coming out of his mouth made sense, but to me…well I had no idea what he was on about.

"It was single stranded. All by itself it could do nothing."

"What was single stranded?"

He never answered my question. Instead he began to study my face, scanning it as he assimilated every fine detail.

"Rockton," he said, his eyes affixed on mine.

The name made my face pale, the blood rushing out of my brain. I could feel my breathing becoming more ragged, my insides twisting and trembling. I could not speak. All I could do was stare at this man, this stranger who had just mentioned my father's name, my supposedly dead, father's name.

"Eyes," he said with a smile. "Look just like him."

"You knew my father?"

Jansen nodded, his smile broadening.

"Good man. Tried to help but no use."

"Alright, that's enough," said the Colonel who had just entered the room. "Come with me Agent Dawson."

"No," I said, my eyes never leaving Jansen's

"That was an order, Dawson!"

"Shut the fuck up!" My roaring voice was followed by a pointed gun. The Desert Eagle stood erect, its silver barrel gleaming in the florescent light. "One more word out of you and I swear I will send you to your grave."

My voice trembled as I spoke. My whole body was shaking in both fear and an ounce of hope. This always happened when my father was mentioned. Trying to keep calm, I turned back to Jansen.

"How did you know my father?"

Jansen's eyes traveled back and forth between me and the Colonel. Finally, staring down at the concrete floor, he began to speak.

"Death awaits," he whispered. Looking back up at me, I could see tears in his eyes. "Your father, my father. Gave life to help me. Gave life to save me."

"He's dead," I said, the hand holding the gun beginning to drop.

Jansen merely nodded. I lowered my gun, feeling it slip from my fingers. The truth was had to swallow.

----------------------------

The door slammed shut. Two guards stood behind the graying door, making sure that I did not cause more havoc on the base. Fact was that even if I had wanted to escape, I did not have the mental energy required to do so.

Pulling out my notepad, I wrote down everything Jansen had said, word for word. What did not make sense to me might to someone else. Sitting down, I began to read over my own notes, trying desperately to get my father out of my head. I could not afford to get lost in my memories, to lose my concentration because of the past.

Minutes later, a knock on the window brought me back to reality. Revieli was standing outside my window, his head turning from side to side, scanning the area for guards.

I went to the window and before opening it, my index finger rose to my lips, telling him silently not to make a noise. Tearing off a sheet from the notepad I wrote a question, one which had sprung in my head as I recalled Jansen's words, a question to which Revieli answered with a nod and smile.

He had known my father.

Taking out a black pen from his breast pocket, he wrote down "He promised he would save us." Closing my eyes, the image of my father in his green army suit flashed before me. That sounded exactly like him, always ready to help, to set things right at any cost.

Revieli took out a piece of yellowing paper, folded neatly into a rectangle, its edges worn out. He passed me the paper then mouthed "goodbye". Unfolding the page with a frown, my eyes shot open at the neat handwriting that adored it.

It was my father's.


End file.
